


Louche

by PalenDrome (nerdherderette)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Burlesque Club, Community: hp_goldenage, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Light Angst, Lost Love, Love Confessions, Open Relationships, Oral Sex, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Post-War, Smoking, Vaginal Sex, mentions of pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-06 16:21:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17943119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdherderette/pseuds/PalenDrome
Summary: It's nearly thirty years since they've been together, but it's like he’s never left[Excerpt]:“May I?” The voice that appears from behind is throaty and deep, and stirs something in her belly.Its owner doesn’t wait for her response. He raises his hand and waves it subtly, causing a perfect flame to light the end of the cigarette until he extinguishes it with a snap of his fingers.It takes all of Pansy’s willpower not to lean back. “This is a Muggle establishment,” she whispers.“Slumming it, Parkinson?”





	Louche

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anidot90](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anidot90/gifts).



> Dear anidot90,
> 
> I adore this pairing, and your suggested themes of slight angst, smut, and a past romantic fling really struck a chord with me. Thank you for your lovely prompt, and for giving me the impetus to pop my Hansy cherry. I hope you this hits on the things you were looking for! <33
> 
> A million thanks to the wonderful RedHorse for her awesome beta. Your insights, suggestions, and commentary lifted this up in every way possible. <33

The weather outside is unbearably hot, the kind that leaves your skin covered in a sheen of sweat that neither a shower nor drink can relieve. Even the blades of the fan are of no use, their _chut-chut_ whirs a mere tease before falling flat on their promise. And here, in the darkness of the smoke-filled club, the dancers are pulling down their fronts and tucking in their bits, readying to raise the temperature even more.

“Lord, it’s a hot one, Ms Parkinson,” Evangeline drawls as she brushes a stray curl from behind her ear. She leans forward to capture the short-lived gust as the oscillating fan makes a second turn, her breasts nearly spilling out of her dress. A blonde wisp flutters, then sticks, damp against her skin.

It’s mid-August, but the higher-than-average temperatures and unusual humidity make it uncomfortable for those who cling to the city’s centre. Right now, the setting sun hangs low on the horizon, pink and purple along its edges as it prepares to wash the skies in a tangerine hue. The half-light creates a moody, disquieting energy that seeps into the recesses of the club.

“Where’s Roxanne?” Pansy frowns as she squints at the clock on the wall.

“Called out sick,” Evangeline sighs. She presses a glass of water to her cheek but the ice has already melted, and even the condensation that hangs from the bottom of the glass is warm.

Pansy rolls her eyes. “And no one thought to tell me?” She runs through the set list mentally. Although the sophisticated pleasures and blatant decadence of Tangier’s golden days have long passed, she still has a reputation to uphold. _The Remembrall_ may not have the cachet it once did, but it’s still the biggest draw in a fading city, and each performance provides a feast for the eyes and senses, bathed in the promise of seduction.

Pansy walks out to the front of the house. “There’s a change in the first act,” she says, slinging her arm around the pianist. “I’m singing for Roxanne instead.”

Sam, bless him, doesn’t bat an eye. _“I Put a Spell On You?”_

Pansy looks out at the small group of musicians who are watching her expectantly. There are some newer faces, but most have been with her since _The Remembrall’s_ inception, when she put down roots in a country far from England, and away from the memories of _him._

She’s already fifty and on the cusp of another turn of the year. Her boobs may sag a little but they're still full and lush, and she’s got an arse and moves that rival those who are decades younger. But it’s been a while since she’s danced, so she decides to let history dictate her story instead.

 _“Unchained Melody,”_ she announces with a flounce of her head.

A smile teases the corners of Sam’s lips. “Just like old times?”

“There’s nothing old about it,” Pansy demurs, her stiletto heels echoing against the well-worn steps as she takes the stage.

A hush falls over the crowd. Even though she hasn’t primped and prepped, she has no need for artifice, at least not when it comes to this song. She lets the melody slide over her skin, simple and haunting, painful in its unabashed need. The words spill from her lips; they are born from a sentiment that resides deep in her chest, and she pushes it forth, with a raspiness that comes from too many years of cigarettes and drink, but still aching with beauty, of the pain of a past love and choices. There is no need for anything more than her heart, exposed in that moment, battered and bruised though it may be.

The words _God speed your love to me_ have barely left her lips, the band’s drummer marking the song’s completion on the downbeat when the audience bursts into applause. Pansy strides off stage, dizzy from the heat of the lights, the air wafting from the street, and the excitement that’s palpable in the club. After twenty-five years, she’s still got it, and she walks up to the bar, content to let the rest of her family take over.

“A Casablanca please, Soraya,” Pansy says breathlessly. She takes the package of Gauloises that Soraya slides towards her and draws out a fag, placing it delicately between her lips.

“May I?” The voice that appears from behind is throaty and deep, and stirs something in her belly.

Its owner doesn’t wait for her response. He raises his hand and waves it subtly, causing a perfect flame to light the end of the cigarette until he extinguishes it with a snap of his fingers.

It takes all of Pansy’s willpower not to lean back. “This is a Muggle establishment,” she whispers.

“Slumming it, Parkinson?”

She tries to mask the shaking of her hand by taking a long drag. “I prefer to think we create a magic of our own.”

He moves closer, the heat emanating from the solidity of his body as his breath curls against her neck. “We had that once. Magic,” the man whispers, and suddenly, Pansy can’t help the anger and longing that wells up inside her.

She turns around, and _Circe,_ Harry is even more gorgeous than she remembered. His black locks are still thick but now streaked with silver, and she’s itching to run her fingers through those wild strands. He’s wearing a pair of rectangular, wire-framed glasses, in the exact style she’d once tried to convince him would look flattering on his face. His body still looks fit under the shape of his linen shirt, and there’s no mistaking the authority that radiates from him. She feels her heart wavering, and it makes her lash out in response.

“There are counterspells for just about anything. Speaking of which: how’s the family, Potter?”

Harry’s green eyes grow dark, and she experiences a momentary thrill at how _dangerous_ he looks. “I’m divorced.”

“Oh.” Pansy hadn’t known. “Congratulations?”

“Depends on who’s saying it.” Harry’s eyes dip down for the briefest of seconds to her impressive decolletage, before he drags them back to her face. “I’ve missed you, Pans.”

“No, Harry,” she hisses. “You fucking bastard. You do _not_ get to come here, to my new home, and tell me that.” She takes the cigarette and stubs out the end angrily, watching with a grim satisfaction as the glow suffocates in a cloud of ash.

“Is everything okay, Ms Parkinson?” Soraya asks. She slides the beer along the countertop with one hand and reaches underneath the bar with the other, where her revolver lays hidden.

Harry keeps his gaze trained on Pansy even as his stance widens. She knows how quick he can be, how his casual pose hides the lethalness that simmers beneath the surface. “Perhaps somewhere private would be better,” he suggests.

Pansy takes in the mulish set of Harry’s jaw. “You have five minutes, Potter,” she grits out, crooking her finger at him to follow. “Soraya, if this gentleman is not out of my office within that time, please send Mehdi in to remove him.”

Harry’s smile falters a bit; it’s an empty threat, considering whom it’s being made against, but Pansy’s pleased that at least he knows she means business.

Her office is tiny and cramped, and a closed door means the temperature is about to climb even further.

“May I cast a cooling charm?” Harry asks as a bead of sweat forms above Pansy’s upper lip.

Pansy licks it off slowly as Harry’s eyes trace the movement of her tongue.

“Ever the gentleman. And no, you may not. I wouldn’t want to be accused of violating any International Statutes.”

Harry takes a step closer. _Circe,_ she thinks as the back of her thighs hit her desk; he really has grown even more handsome. He slots his body between her legs. The weight of his thigh is hot and hard, everything sharpened and honed. When she takes a deep breath, his dizzying proximity makes her wobble.

He reaches out, his strong hands steadying her. “You were quite fond of telling me that rules were made to be broken.”

Pansy purses her lips and looks up at the ceiling. “That was a lifetime ago, Harry. It’s hardly—”

“Remember that night when we were in Tallinn?” he murmurs. His lips hover over the curve of her neck as he braces his arms on either side of her, hands gripping the edge of the desk as he cages her in. She makes the mistake of looking down; his sleeves are rolled at the cuffs, showing off his impressive forearms, causing a needy sound to leave her traitorous throat. “You were brilliant. We fucked in that cupboard at the Riigikogu right after you took down Pärn—”

“The bruises you left on my arse lasted for days. You, on the other hand, were gone the next morning.”

Guilt flickers in those damnable eyes. “That was our last assignment together.”

“That was my last assignment for the Ministry, period. Few knew I’d been working for your department all along. You left, landed yourself a fiancée, and became the beloved Head Auror with his picture-perfect family. Whereas I was left with only my publicly sullied name and history.”

For the first time, Harry’s confidence falters. “Ginny was unexpectedly pregnant; I couldn’t keep my job with the Hit Wizards, not with all the travel and danger.”

“You _live_ off danger, Potter!” Pansy cries. “We were partners!”

“You knew when we started that it was a temporary thing. You said you never wanted—”

“I lied,” Pansy whispers. A flood of emotions overwhelms her, rage and loneliness giving way to the inexplicable hope upon seeing Harry standing before her.

“I haven’t stopped thinking of you since,” Harry says, closing the distance. She can smell the whisky and cigarettes on his breath; he must have fallen back into the habit. “Gin and I have been divorced for five years. James is a first-string Chaser with the Wasps; Al’s finished his Healer’s training, and is current in Abaco with Scorpius; and Lily’s in her second year with the Aurors.” He sighs, his voice catching. “I’ve missed you so much. It took me over a year to track you down.”

He leans forward, his mouth moving from the curve of her ear to the length of her neck. When his lips press against the column of skin, they’re soft and insistent.

“What about what I want?” Pansy rasps, her traitorous hand winding around the back of his head, pulling him close.

Of course _that_ stops him in his tracks. Harry, if nothing else, will forever be a Gryffindor.

“I’m sorry.” Harry begins to pull away, the lines deepening in his forehead as his eyes flash with contrition.

She tugs him against her, hard. “You should be. You broke my heart. Now don’t you dare stop, you fucking bastard.”

Harry’s dark chuckle sends a thrill of lust through her that starts in her chest and curls all the way down to her toes. “My Pans. How I’ve missed you.” He nuzzles her skin, the intake of his breath sharp as he drinks her in, and she’s sure he can smell her arousal under the perfume and sweat and smoke. She’s pinned between the desk and his hard thighs, and Circe, his cock is already hard as he ruts against her, hips jabbing, legs rubbing as if he can wear away the cotton and silk, erase the divide of the years that stand between them.

She pulls on his hair, directing his head up, gentle but insistent. The lenses of his glasses are already smudged from the oils of their skin and the humidity and their sweat. She removes them, placing them on the top of her desk for safekeeping, and allows herself to drink in the beauty of his unfiltered gaze.

His eyes are still the deepest green. Songs and poems have been written about their unnatural shade, and it’s true—she’s never seen anyone else with such a pretty and intense colour. But they’ve also changed...their hard-edged precision and clarity now softened by time and, perhaps, the love of his family. It breaks her heart to realise that Harry would never have achieved this level of maturity and gravitas with her, but at the same time, she loves him all the more for it.

She drags her fingers from the corner of his eyes, tracing over the crow’s feet that decorate the edges, made more prominent from his time spent in the Moroccan wind and sun. His skin has lost some of its smoothness; his cheeks are sharper, his jaw granite-like and strong, and the stubble that rasps under the blunt edges of her nails is now shot through with grey. He looks lived-in, but it suits him beautifully.

His patience must be wearing thin, because he takes her hand in his, his lips brushing against her knuckles, soft but with a hint of teeth. He turns her over, palm up, working his way along the inside of her wrist, unerringly finding the spot where her pulse is beating rapidly, coursing with her lifeblood, her weakness. She knows he feels the way that it flutters, the way that it quickens as he bites a little harder—not enough to bruise. Marking her from within.

“Pansy,” Harry groans, his voice breaking as she removes her hand from his mouth and fumbles roughly with the buttons on his shirt, sending several skittering in her haste. 

“Love.” He catches one of the straps of her dress between his thumb and forefinger and tugs. It’s thin, the width of it disappearing between the pads of his fingers, as fragile as her heart. She briefly thinks of how easily it could come apart in his hands.

She tips her head back, her eyelids fluttering closed as she gives in to his touch, the warm, familiar scent of him soothing the ache she’s tried to hide away for far too long. One of them inhales sharply as the silky fabric slides down her skin, the smooth cling of her dress traded for the warmth and vulnerability of the night. He hesitates, but before it turns awkward enough to warrant her opening her eyes, she feels his hands, rough and kneading as they cup her breasts, his soft, amazing lips as they latch onto her tit.

Harry has always been a loud and appreciative lover, and the years have done little to change that. He suckles on the hardening nub, pulling a gasp from her as he draws back, clenching the sensitive tip between his teeth gently, then lapping at it as if in apology. 

He squeezes then rubs insistently at her other breast at the same time; with the way that he’s breathing, hard and fast, his groans muffled against the ample flesh, he makes her forget that they’re not as perky and firm as the last time he’s worshipped them. But when he glances up, with adoration and awe in his eyes, she melts, as enamoured of him as the groupies who still hound his every move.

“Ms Parkinson?” Soraya’s worried voice is muffled behind the door, interrupted by one that’s lower by two octaves and much more threatening.

“You all right in there, Pansy?” Mehdi asks, his voice is deceptively calm.

“Yes,” Pansy rasps. She can hear the doubt in their silence, so she clears her throat as Harry raises a brow, a smirk growing on his face with each passing second. “Yes; I’ve changed my mind. I’ll let you know if I need anything else.”

“That’s more like it—” Harry begins, eyes widening as Pansy slides her wand from her garter and quickly casts several spells. The towel on the ground is transfigured into a mattress and she pushes him backwards onto it, his wrists bound together as she straddles his hips and places his arms overhead.

“I’ve never mastered wandless magic, but I’ve always had the advantage because you think with your prick,” Pansy teases. She casts another spell, vanishing Harry’s clothes as he lets out a groan. She knows he’s powerful enough to easily slip his bindings, with or without magic. But the fact that he allows himself to be laid out before her—his body bared, cock hard and flushed, wearing nothing but a defiant and knowing grin—fills her with a sense of ownership and pride.

“I’m going to ruin you,” she promises as the green of his eyes get swallowed up by his lust.

“You already have,” he concedes.

She places the tip of the five-inch heel of her stiletto against his chest, watching his pupils widen further as he yields to her control. This is the Harry she remembers...the one who loves to skirt the lines of pain and danger.

The one who couldn’t resist the siren call of their illicit attraction.

He was always fond of telling her that her body was made for sin, and plenty of _The Remembrall’s_ patrons would agree with him. She performs a quarter turn, rucking down the top of her dress to her waist, careful to wriggle so that her breasts bounce, catching Harry’s greedy gaze. She shimmies some more, slowing the descent of the garment along the widened curve of her hips, her thumb catching the strap of her panties, pulling the wisp of satin aside to showcase the swell of her buttock, the hint of the cleft that leads to the treasures beneath.

 _“Fuck,”_ Harry breathes as Pansy digs the end of her heel in a bit more before removing the dress completely, sticking her arse out as she repositions her feet, lowering the dress and sliding one shapely leg out, then another.

Her panties are the last to go. The small slip of fabric is already soaked with the juices of her cunt, the air perfumed with the scent of her arousal. It would be embarrassing, how much she reeks, how much she can’t hide in any way just how much she _wants_ him, has always wanted him, but it all goes by the wayside when Harry turns his head towards the hand that grips the damp cloth, his neck craning, tendons straining as he unconsciously licks his lips until they’re glistening wet, looking like he’s just rubbed his face all over it.

 _Circe._ Harry loves to eat pussy, and in Pansy’s experience, there’s no one who does it better.

But...this is her place. Her rules.

At least, that’s what she tells her heart, no matter how much it’s thundering inside her.

She rakes her eyes down the front of Harry’s chest, lingering on the scar that crosses his left flank, the shape of it jagged and ugly even though it’s faded since she’s last seen it, its margins no longer an angry pink. She had nursed him when it was bloody and deep—bandaged the wound, shared in his tears after a botched assassination attempt left one of their colleagues dead.

That night, Harry allowed Pansy see a part of him that few ever had before. And later on, they’d charmed one of the glasses in their hotel room into a strap-on, and Pansy had fucked him with it, channeling all their anger into the act, making him forget, taking away his pain.

Harry had come, arse clenching around the dildo, his face a mixture of agony and bliss as he screamed her name, and nothing has ever been the same between them since.

Pansy leaves her stilettos on as she stands over him, her legs planted on either side of his chest. When they’re both upright, Harry has a good nine inches on her five-foot-three frame, but she’s using everything else, from the suggestion of how much he loves to feel her heeled feet wrapped around his waist, to her flushed skin, to her dominant and suggestive pose, to remind him of everything he has to lose should he fuck up again.

She lowers herself slowly so that her pussy hovers inches from his face, her neatly-trimmed curls dewy-wet with slick. Harry’s nostrils flare in response, and Pansy’s thighs, strong enough to bring down most men, actually quiver. Her mind flies back to the last time he ate her out—the stubble of his beard burning against her skin as he snuffled into her cunt, face burrowing deeper as he feasted on her taste, tongue lapping roughly along her swollen lips, teeth nibbling her clit, his chin growing shiny with a mixture of their heat and slick.

“Just one lick,” she orders, because she’s enough of a bitch to deny them both.

Harry’s face lights up like she’s handed him the world—an irony, if she’s ever heard one. His tongue dives out and, because he’s also a bastard, he follows her instructions to a T while drawing it out, the tip of the muscle teasing, pressing, then devouring her in one, long stripe. It takes all her effort to stop herself from sinking down, loosening his bindings, and riding his face.

He’s being so good, the muscles in his body tensing as he tries to refrain from taking over. His skin, normally a lovely gold, is even more bronzed from the desert sun. She drags her body over his, the brush of her breasts causing him to hiss and buck, her fingers trailing soft-hard over the faint softness that now pads the area above his once-sharp hips, until she feels the tip of his turgid cock, dribbling with his need, nudge against the swollen entrance to her cunt.

“Pansy. Please,” he groans.

Her face softens as she drinks in his pain, the way the green in his eyes become a bit too bright. She knows that he is ceding this moment to her. Leaving the decision of _this,_ as well as whatever happens afterwards, in her hands.

She sinks down slowly onto his prick, the folds of her pussy parting for him as she knows they always will. Each agonising inch stretches her thin, Harry’s heat and life filling her as no one else ever could. He loses a bit of his control as his hips jerk up, thighs tensing once the curve of her arse settles against him, and she remembers how strong he is, her Harry, how possessive and passionate and lethal.

“Harry,” she whimpers as he bridges the last inch, stuffing her full. There’s never been anyone like him. Ever.

He breaks the bonds around his wrist, his hand coming up to finger the strands of her hair, cup her face. “Red,” he rasps, his private name for her nearly causing her to fall apart.

Perhaps it’s a strange one, considering who he was married to. But she had developed a fondness for red pansies after he had graced her apartment with a pot of them one morning, commenting on their beauty and rarity. He had nicknamed her that afterwards, but she knew it symbolised much more—red for the ties that bind, for the blood they’d shed, for the darkness inside them neither could shake, no matter how much penance they’d do over the years with their money or good deeds.

“Louche,” she says softly, her own private name for him.

She tilts her face into his hand, then drags it down the length of her neck, in between the valley of her breasts, across the front of her belly. He doesn’t seem to mind that it’s a bit wider, and bit softer than the last time they were together, or that the skin in that area is marred by streaks of silver.

“You’re even more beautiful,” he says reverently.

He says it like it’s the absolute truth.

“Fuck me, Harry.”

The groan that leaves his chest is absolutely primal as he flips her over. Pansy wraps her legs around Harry’s waist, her hands gripping the meat of his broad shoulders as he plants his arms on both side of her, protecting her with his embrace. His head dips down as his hips rear, the muscles of his glorious arse and legs trembling as he slams into her, fucking her, raw and angry and needy.

Pansy meets him as she always does, fiercely canting and rolling her hips, the muscles of her cunt clenching as they both surrender, not caring who may hear. She bites her lip, the bright burst of copper stinging her tongue, and then he’s licking it away, his mouth desperately soft, wicking away her pain as he whispers her name, over and over. He tastes so sweet and full, her Harry, even when salted with the tears of his remorse.

“Harry, Harry, Harry,” she cries, her tears flooding with the weight of her emotions as she shudders around him and he comes.

Their sated bodies slide against one another, messy from the heat. Harry gathers her into his arms and kisses her gently, thrusting several more times, slow and deep, as if he wants to bury himself in her forever. They cling onto one another until his prick eventually softens and he slides out.

He makes a move to cast a Cleaning charm, and she stills his hand.

“Leave it,” Pansy murmurs.

Harry looks at her, observant even through the foggy aftermath of their lust.

It’s hard for Pansy to meet his gaze. She’s sure he can see how fragile their new truce is...of how the evidence of their togetherness could disappear as quickly as it had in the past.

Harry rolls off and settles himself beside her, his limp cock nestled against her hip. She hears the slow inhale, the guilt that hangs in his breath.

“If it were just Ginny, perhaps I would have made a different decision. One that wouldn’t have hurt everyone so much. But with James on the way—”

Pansy brushes her finger against his lips. She blames herself as much as him...knew that when they’d started this, Harry and Ginny had agreed on a laissez-faire approach to their relationship during his stints overseas, especially since Ginny was also travelling and making a name for herself with the Harpies. Pansy dove in, throwing caution to the wind even as she knew how much Harry loved Ginny and the Weasleys. How children and his own family were something no single woman could ever replace.

It was supposed to be something temporary, something to quell the fire that burned between them. She had no idea back then that her love for him would be her cross to bear.

“I was never cut out for nappies,” Pansy says graciously. She trails her finger along the hairs on his chest. There’s little to gain from standing on ceremony after all these years. “Sooo...how long are you planning to stay in Morocco?”

Harry hums. “That all depends. I thought I was done chasing people around the world, but as it turns out, there’s someone who got away.”

She’s sure he can see the way her pulse quickens at the base of her neck. “Really? Aren’t you a bit old to start chasing after people all over again?”

“Old habits die hard. Besides, you know how much I hate to lose.”

“You never lost me, Harry,” Pansy admits, flicking her eyes to meet his. “Although I think I’m going to enjoy having you make it up to me.”

He takes her in his arms, the warm and solid press of his body no longer a fleeting wish, a pipe dream, a melancholy memory. The frayed edges of her heart knit together, but instead of tearing at the seams, they’re buoyed by the hope that swells beneath.

“I look forward to it, Red. Even if it takes a lifetime of trying.”

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a part of an anonymous fest and the creator will be revealed no later than March 30. Please comment here or at [our community on Dreamwidth.](https://hp-goldenage.dreamwidth.org/67281.html) Thanks! ♥


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